


Want, Take, Have

by Corycides



Series: Hands On [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, M/M, Masturbation, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles is determined to do the right thing, think the right thing, but alone in the dark...what he wants seems right</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want, Take, Have

46 years and it was still the same problem. Miles Matheson was too damn good at getting what he wanted. His brain just kept ticking over until he worked out how to get it – even when it was something he shouldn't have, _couldn't_ have. Something he shouldn't even want. Only thing was, there were such a lot of those right now.

He leaned against the wall outside the toilet, his head tilted back against the cracked plaster, and listened to Charlie. The part of his brain that was always on the look out for weakness, fracture points, _leverage_ took note that Charlie was quiet when she came, a sharp gasp and a stifled whimper.

It would hitch against his throat, that little whimper, a damp lick of air.

He waited a second and then slapped his palm on the door. 'Charlie?' She'd not register his voice was a bit rougher than normal, she never did.

After a second she called back – he noticed the scrape of her voice – and ducked out through the door with her head dipped, hiding flushed cheeks behind her hair. The thick, salt and sweet musk of sex dried his mouth and flushed heat through his body. He was used to it.

The first time it had been an accident. He'd been scared she might do something stupid. She was so like Bass, in a lot of ways, no brakes on her heart. Except she wasn't and Jason wasn't in there – he'd checked – and, well, now he listened.

It was all he'd have of her. Not because it was wrong – walk 100 miles and no-one would know who they were, go back to Monroe and no-one would dare say anything – but because he ruined everything he loved. His life was one long crime report of efficiently slaughtered relationships, from Ben's wounded, betrayed eyes to the hopeful squeeze of Nora's fingers on his. And the more he loved them – Bass, Rachel – the more ruined they got.

Charlie was already halfway there; he hadn't seen her smile, really smile, since Philadelpha. 1000 miles ago he'd have called it growing up and said it was about time, now he wished she'd never had to see the ugly world he lived in.

So he just took those little sounds and the memory of Charlie hugging him – all softness and knobbly knuckles digging into his back, and he couldn't forget the tears, could he? - into the dark with a flask of whiskey. No-one ever came looking for him. Ben had been wrong; he was good at killing _and_ being alone.

He slouched back against a tree, legs sprawled and his hand down the front of his jeans. His hand slid along the shaft with quick, efficient strokes, mechanical pleasure as he tried to prove he didn't need... _that._

It had been like this when they'd been in boot camp – him and Bass. Too exhausted to even conjure up a pair of boobs, knee raised to pretend pivacy as they chased sweaty, physical release so they could sack out once the ache was gone.

'Take your time,' Rachel whispered in his head. The memory had the smell of her hair, the tickle of her lashes – eyes closed, like she was pretending herself away – and the warm, practical grip of her fingers over his as she guided his hand. 'We've got all night.'

They'd been long nights by then, no electricity to keep them at bay till a reasonable time, and she looked at him now like they weren't good memories. She'd moaned under him, that stern mouth soft and flushed around his cock, but maybe that didn't mean anything; maybe she'd not wanted him any more than she wanted Bass.

Muscles tensed and ached in Miles' thighs, his balls aching with frustrated heat. He swallowed, mouth dry, and tried something else. Not Bass. Miles knew what he'd done in Philadelphia, he'd taken away everything from Bass with five little words. So Miles didn't get to keep this.

His thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing come, and he slid his hand down to cup his balls, heavy and flinching in his palm.

The last woman he'd been with had been Nora – after she chose them over Mia. Like fucking him was a reward. He'd bent her over the hood of an abandoned car, holding her hands flat against the cooling metal, and pretended she was someone else – someone he didn't know – while he fucked her.

He'd thought she was tough when they hooked up, playing violent games with each other through the Republic as she went from chasing him for the militia to helping him escape them. It was only when it was too late that he'd realised it was only skin-deep. She wanted a family – the house, the kids, the fucking dog – and every thing she did was so that one day she could be happy.

It wasn't Miles. He didn't get to be happy not after everything he'd done. It was his death-payment to...everyone, to the dead and the widowed and the betrayed.

The thought of Nora just made him feel sad and tired, and old. Older than Charlie and her puppy-dog enthusiasm and big blue eyes ever did. His brain liked that turn of thought, his cock did too. He rolled his head back against the tree, closing his eyes and biting his lip.

Just this once. It was always just this once.

Charlie in his lap, eager and impatient here as she was in sword-practice. His cock inside her and her mouth on his as she moved against him. He let go long enough to spit in his hand, the wet slick and squeeze of his fingers jerking everything tight from his balls to his ass-hole.

No. His fantasy. He wanted her under him, her long legs wrapped around him as he fucked her with fast, hard strokes. His name spilling off her tongue as she came – because maybe she wouldn't be quiet, out here with him.

He came finally, wet and sticky and dripping between his fingers (her thighs, matting the honey-gold curls there). Anyone normal would have been disgusted with themselves, but he just felt...satisfied.

Besides – he wiped his palm clean on a handful of leaves – it wasn't as if he was going to do anything about it. Thoughts were just...thoughts, fantasies. She didn't think of him like that.

Not that he couldn't fix that. Danny was dead, Rachel was gone again and Aaron with her – who else did Charlie have? It wouldn't be hard to manipulate that...not that he should, not that he was going to.

Miles tidied himself up and went back to camp, stopping next to Charlie to tug her blanket up over her shoulder and brush a strand of hair back her face.

He wouldn't do it – but he could, couldn't he?

 


End file.
